thirty-two-year-old man. Little did either of us know that you were on your way into my life. Little did we know that his death had something to do with you.
TWO
B UT OF COURSE YOU wouldn’t know the particulars of this death until the next morning. You would first hear general news of a suicide—I would be the one to tell you, that same night—but you still wouldn’t know who. As for the media coverage of it, I think the incident never went beyond what was probably informal newsroom gossip, an inconvenience to thousands of New Yorkers. Never was it mentioned in the Times or the Journal, papers I sometimes write for. I probably should’ve checked the Long Island coverage in Newsday.
When I arrived back in Manhattan that Sunday evening, I parked in a lot on Lafayette, across from World Gym. I grabbed my overnight bag and was heading across the street when I spotted Peter Rocca, a red-haired psychiatrist whom I’d been dating on and off over the summer. Wearing the sheerest of orange tank tops, he was standing in front of the gym’s huge plate glass windows, as if waiting for someone. I thought, he’s back from the Morning Party conspicuously early. Stopping to watch who might be joining him, thinking how throughout the past few months with Peter I’d been waiting for the single act of tempestuous lovemaking, the act of casual cruelty that would seed a romantic obsession, I stood there on the curb.
Then you. You walked out of World Gym.
Peter nudged you playfully with his shoulder and you both began strolling along Lafayette. I thought jealously, How sweet: they went to pump up together before getting it on. This must be some hunk Peter snagged at the Morning Party; no wonder he got back so early.
Sure, I would have liked to subvert this pickup, but I knew there were no grounds for doing so. Peter Rocca and I had never had any real commitment. Throughout our fling, he’d remained attached to another man with whom he’d been involved intermittently for a couple of years. What first drew me to Peter, in fact, was the Saturday afternoon I was walking down this very street when I saw his superhero’s build tumble out of World Gym, closely trailed by a compact swarthier version, a man who wore his hair in an exaggerated pompadour. The other man, whose name, I learned, was Sebastian, began screaming obscenities at Peter. Initially Peter tried to walk away, but when the litany kept up, he finally whirled around, rushed back and tackled Sebastian right there on the sidewalk. I watched them struggle until Peter seized the advantage, pinned Sebastian and began strangling him. “I love you, Peter, I’ll always love you,” Sebastian garbled as he was being choked. Yet before I could figure out what to do, a couple of other guys from the gym came out and broke up the fight.
What compelled me was how the pompadoured man, in the midst of being throttled, could keep declaring his love. Some might call this a sick desperation, but I have to say there’s something in me that respects people who put themselves on the line, who risk appearing like complete fools.
From my distance I could see that you were broadly built with ashen coloring and tight black curly hair. I was as yet too far away to see your small piercing eyes. Peter spotted me immediately, however, and waved. I tried to keep walking.
“Come on, Will, stop acting like an asshole and get over here!” he trumpeted. “This is Sean.” He introduced us immediately. “Sean Paris.”
You barely said hello; it was hard to tell if you were shy or arrogant, and I dismissed you the way I figured you dismissed me. Good solid body, I’d give you that. Great legs of the hockey player variety—okay, so legs are my particular weakness. I figured that Peter was in the midst of leading you back to his apartment, fourteen stories above Sixth Avenue, with panoramas of downtown and of the Empire State Building, whose upper-story lights would die out romantically on the
TWO
B UT OF COURSE YOU wouldn’t know the particulars of this death until the next morning. You would first hear general news of a suicide—I would be the one to tell you, that same night—but you still wouldn’t know who. As for the media coverage of it, I think the incident never went beyond what was probably informal newsroom gossip, an inconvenience to thousands of New Yorkers. Never was it mentioned in the Times or the Journal, papers I sometimes write for. I probably should’ve checked the Long Island coverage in Newsday.
When I arrived back in Manhattan that Sunday evening, I parked in a lot on Lafayette, across from World Gym. I grabbed my overnight bag and was heading across the street when I spotted Peter Rocca, a red-haired psychiatrist whom I’d been dating on and off over the summer. Wearing the sheerest of orange tank tops, he was standing in front of the gym’s huge plate glass windows, as if waiting for someone. I thought, he’s back from the Morning Party conspicuously early. Stopping to watch who might be joining him, thinking how throughout the past few months with Peter I’d been waiting for the single act of tempestuous lovemaking, the act of casual cruelty that would seed a romantic obsession, I stood there on the curb.
Then you. You walked out of World Gym.
Peter nudged you playfully with his shoulder and you both began strolling along Lafayette. I thought jealously, How sweet: they went to pump up together before getting it on. This must be some hunk Peter snagged at the Morning Party; no wonder he got back so early.
Sure, I would have liked to subvert this pickup, but I knew there were no grounds for doing so. Peter Rocca and I had never had any real commitment. Throughout our fling, he’d remained attached to another man with whom he’d been involved intermittently for a couple of years. What first drew me to Peter, in fact, was the Saturday afternoon I was walking down this very street when I saw his superhero’s build tumble out of World Gym, closely trailed by a compact swarthier version, a man who wore his hair in an exaggerated pompadour. The other man, whose name, I learned, was Sebastian, began screaming obscenities at Peter. Initially Peter tried to walk away, but when the litany kept up, he finally whirled around, rushed back and tackled Sebastian right there on the sidewalk. I watched them struggle until Peter seized the advantage, pinned Sebastian and began strangling him. “I love you, Peter, I’ll always love you,” Sebastian garbled as he was being choked. Yet before I could figure out what to do, a couple of other guys from the gym came out and broke up the fight.
What compelled me was how the pompadoured man, in the midst of being throttled, could keep declaring his love. Some might call this a sick desperation, but I have to say there’s something in me that respects people who put themselves on the line, who risk appearing like complete fools.
From my distance I could see that you were broadly built with ashen coloring and tight black curly hair. I was as yet too far away to see your small piercing eyes. Peter spotted me immediately, however, and waved. I tried to keep walking.
“Come on, Will, stop acting like an asshole and get over here!” he trumpeted. “This is Sean.” He introduced us immediately. “Sean Paris.”
You barely said hello; it was hard to tell if you were shy or arrogant, and I dismissed you the way I figured you dismissed me. Good solid body, I’d give you that. Great legs of the hockey player variety—okay, so legs are my particular weakness. I figured that Peter was in the midst of leading you back to his apartment, fourteen stories above Sixth Avenue, with panoramas of downtown and of the Empire State Building, whose upper-story lights would die out romantically on the
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